Phrenology
by Totally-T3ii3
Summary: A lengthy one-shot drabble about Sherlock's skull. First Sherlock fic! R&R!


A lengthy drabble (possible character study) about Sherlock's skull_.__  
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><p>"Damn! I'm late!" John threw himself out of his bed, his alarm had not gone off. Why had his alarm not gone off? He looked to the clock, and saw it- well, rather the lack of it- his night stand was vacant. He immediately knew what had happened, "SHERLOCK!"<p>

The culprit in question poked his head around the corner, into John's bedroom, "What is it?"

John glared, "Where is my alarm clock?"

"I needed it."

"For _what_?" John groaned in exasperation as he began to undress. He wasn't modest, he'd been in the Army and there was no such thing as modesty there. You saw everything of everyone when you took communal showers. He had been modest before the Army, but that went away fairly quickly. He had expected to rediscover his modesty when he came back to London, but with this sort of a flat mate- you know, the kind who has no sense of personal space?- it was beneficial to accept they may see each other stark naked from time to time.

"For an experiment, John, of course." came the equally exasperated sigh. In fact, John thought, Sherlock looked more exasperated than he did! Which, by all accounts, was not fair. John was the one late to work. John was the one who had a life outside of the flat. John was the one who might get fired if he's late too often. John had a job to do, and a paycheck to earn. The same could not be said for Sherlock. So, why, in the name of God, did Sherlock look exasperated?

"What kind of an experiment, Sherlock?" he asked, buttoning up a blue shirt, and then tugging one of his wool-y jumpers over top.

"I broke my stop-watch, you see. I needed a digital clock to time something."

"Time what?" by this point John realized Sherlock was beating around the bush about whatever had happened. John knew by now that that meant Sherlock's experiment had not gone as planned, and he was probably never going to see his clock again, and Sherlock didn't know how to break that news to John. He decided, instead of snapping, to just gingerly lean on Sherlock until the madman admitted to whatever heinous deed he'd done.

"I put all of the steak knives into the ceiling, and I wanted to see how long it might take for them to fall. The effects of centripetal force on an inverted object, working against gravity. You probably wouldn't understan-"

"I know what centripetal force is, Sherlock, thank you. Are the knives still in the ceiling?"

"Yes." he answered, "I lodged them in rather deeply. I suspect it will take two hours before the first gives way, and falls."

"Alright. Good. Fine. Where's my clock?"

Sherlock pulled himself out of the room, allowing John to pass on his way to the bathroom, "I miscalculated the first attempt. It won't happen again. I've recalculated my hypothesis, and now I have all the correct algorithms in place to ensure that _this _time it will work."

"But my _clock_, Sherlock, my _clock_." he groaned, smearing toothpaste on his toothbrush. He decided he didn't want to choke on the spit, and turned to wait for the detective to forgo the untimely demise of his clock.

"The Ginsu knife dislodged early on in the experiment and skewered it." he said.

John groaned, "Sherlock!"

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder, "I bought four replacements-"

"Where?" John sputtered. He didn't know of any 24/7 electronic boutiques in the area. Hell, he wasn't even sure if such a thing existed in all of the U.K.

Sherlock ignored his question, "-I'll give you which ever one survives the next two hours."

"Why didn't you just buy a stop watch, and me a replacement alarm clock?" John sighed, now walking down the steps to the kitchen to make himself some tea. He was going to be late to work no matter what. He may as well be late with warm tea in his belly than late with nothing at all in his belly except for stomach cramps from living with such an impossible man.

Sherlock was silent a moment, "That never occurred to me." he said, "I'll buy another stop watch once I finish the experiment."

John nodded, "You do that. Tea?"

"Hm? No. No.. I'm too busy." he waved a hand at John and entered the main door to the flat, "Oh. Do just take the side there into the kitchen..." he said, pointing to their second door, "I don't want you to get skewered as well."

"What about you?" John asked, narrowing his eyes, wondering what Sherlock was playing at now.

"I know where they've all been placed. I'll maneuver around them." Sherlock replied, and entered, slamming that door on John's face.

John glared. He decided stomach cramps were a better option than sticking around another second with Sherlock. He opened the door, took his coat, and glared, "I'm off to work, Sherlock! Good bye!"

Sherlock did not reply. John didn't even see him, and he decided (for once) he didn't care to note where Sherlock had curled himself up for the day. Usually he took note of it, and then if Sherlock hadn't moved by the time he got home he made the taller man go for a long, long walk about London. It wasn't healthy to stay cooped up inside all day- unless Sherlock was really annoying then he could sit in the dark, and not eat, and risk getting scurvy all he wanted. John left, and thanked the door for slamming with such authority.

/br.

Sherlock agreed he was an impossible person to live with. He agreed that his eccentricities could drive a person up the metaphorical wall. He knew there was just a small handful of people who could really, honestly, humor him in the world. The people were so few he could count them on one hand. John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, The Woman, and.. his cool grey eyes fluttered over to the mantle where his skull was _not _sitting. He frowned, and stood to his full height, glaring at the empty place on the mantle. He contemplated taking Mrs. Hudson off of that list because she was quickly becoming one of his least favorite people. The skull was, in no way, shape, or form an acceptable collateral for any damage the flat suffered. The skull did not need to be literally dragged into any of the petty disputes between himself, and his landlady.

He ignored the slam of the door, John was mad, and he didn't care. He usually cared. John was his best friend- his only friend- and he didn't like when John was cross with him. Even though he never made that obvious to John himself, because John had more to worry about than if he was offending Sherlock. John had too much to do to worry about something so petty. But, now he did not care that John was mad at him. He really couldn't have cared any less. His skull was missing- again!

Occasionally, Sherlock would not get mad and almost find it amusing. Or, he'd be dumbfounded as to why his skull was gone again- usually because he wasn't aware Mrs. Hudson had caught on to one of his more dangerous experiments. But, lately, it just enraged him. Probably because it was so close to_ that day_. The skull needed to be respected. It deserved that much.

After all, it hadn't always been a skull.

At one point it was...

He didn't let his mind wander back to_ that day_. It was in the past. It was behind him. It no longer mattered.

He heard the front door of 221 slam shut, and he headed down to confront Mrs. Hudson. John did not need to see, nor hear, Sherlock berate their landlady for touching his skull. John wouldn't understand. He would scold Sherlock, probably, and tell him that being 'mean' to Mrs. Hudson was no way to behave when you didn't get your skull back. Sherlock didn't want to hear that speech again! Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock knew, would eventually get over his verbal lashing and she would peak up into his flat, offer him a cup of tea, and a kiss on the cheek, and he'd forget why he was mad at her. Sherlock knew that was irrational, after all she was just his landlady, and for the most part Sherlock hated women (he hated everyone, but he had a particular distaste for women.) They were so conniving, manipulative, and emotional.

There moods could be changed due to a misplaced strand of hair, and their most slight behavior might mean the world. A bad hair day, a subtle flick of the wrist, it was too complicated. Too messy. Sherlock found them both fascinating, and infuriating. However, for as much as he said he disliked women, two of the four people he had never driven insane were women. That did count for something, as far as he was concerned.

That didn't mean Mrs. Hudson could steal his skull, though!

He rapped on the door to her flat, and the cold sound echoed all around the bottom floor. As if it anticipated his next movements. He felt as if the sound barbarized him, so he decided to knock again, not with his knuckles this time, but with the flat of his hand. He pounded on her door, and felt it tremble under his palm. This echo was no better than the first.

She opened the door, "Sherlock, dear, what's all the noise about?"

He glared at her, "Where. Is. My. Skull?"

"I'll not be giving it back until you fix the holes in my ceiling. What do you think you're doing sticking knives in it?"

He frowned, his mouth a thin line, "I will reimburse you tomorrow. Give me my skull!"

"No. Sherlock, you won't get that hideous thing back until you've paid me enough to mend that ceiling!"

"To hell with that ceiling!" Sherlock cried, "GIVE ME MY SKULL!"

"Didn't your mother ever tell you to say 'please'?" she was arguing back this time, and Sherlock was momentarily stunned.

He recovered quickly, "No. Now give it to me!"

"NO! And if you keep acting like a child I'll toss the bloody thing out! How'd you like that?" and she slammed the door on his face. She never, ever yelled at Sherlock before. Frankly, she was scared of how he might react if she did. However, there was only so far an old lady can be pushed.

/br.

Sherlock yanked out his phone, and he called Mycroft, he didn't wait for formalities, he dove right into the matter at hand. He'd swallow his pride a moment if it got him his skull back, "I need some money to repair my flat."

"Oh my, Sherlock, what's gotten you so angry you felt the need to call me? Your arch-enemy?" Mycroft asked, his tone perfectly professional, but Sherlock could pretty much see the grin on his smug, fat face.

"I'm not interested in witty banter, Mycroft, I need enough to repair my flat." he said, and it almost killed him to keep his voice so steady.

"Why? You've never minded the bullet holes before." Mycroft said, still playing coy.

"Yes, but Mrs. Hudson has finally put her foot down. How soon can you wire it to my account?" It wasn't really a question.

"You've never asked me for help before."

"And I'm not now. The money. When?"

"Oh, Sherlock, mummy never did get you to understand manners, did she?"

"Mycroft!" he snapped, but stopped, inhaled and let it back out slowly, finally admitting why he needed Mycrofts hel- money. Why he needed Mycroft's money." She took the skull."

There was silence on the other end for a long while, then there was a series of hard taps and a loud sigh, "I am only doing it this once, Sherlock. This once. Five hundred pounds should suffice. There. It's in your account."

Sherlock nodded, "Good... thank you."

Mycroft's grin was impossible now, "There! That wasn't hard, now was it Sherlo-"

Sherlock promptly hung up on him.

He left the building, and walked quickly down to his bank, he withdrew the money and stomped back to 221 Baker Street. He rapped loudly on Mrs. Hudson's door, and waited for her to answer. It was a few moments but he heard her moving around, probably stepping over her sewing supplies to get to the door.

She opened it meekly, "Sherlock?"

He thrust the money towards her, "Is that enough?"

She nodded, "It is dear, thank yo-"

"My skull."

She sighed, left, and then went and got it again. She returned and handed it to him, "Sherlock, why do you keep such a ghastly thing?"

"It's my friend."

She was struck by his answer. He sounded like a petulant child trying to talk his mother into letting him keep a stray cat. She smiled, despite herself, and stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. He looked at her, eyes a little wide, not having expected her to cede the point so quickly. But, he was grateful, and he hugged her with his free arm, then went back up to his flat.

/br.

He placed the skull on it's rightful place on the mantle. It looked right there. He could always see it- watch it- make sure it was safe. The only real danger it had was from Mrs. Hudson, and he had a feeling she wouldn't be swiping it again any time soon. He looked up at his ceiling, to the knife marks, and thought for a moment she might be right. He didn't really have any right to destroy her ceiling. But, then he knew he didn't really care. And she didn't really care. And the only person who ever really cared was John because it effected him as much as it effected... him...

He looked at the skull. Old, yellow, with a prominent temporal ridge, large teeth, and square mandible it was still, obviously, _his _skull from _that day_. It had been his one possession through Uni, and then the one thing he made sure to keep tenderly in a duffel bag as he jumped from a temporary flat, to crack house, to a rehabilitation center, to Mycroft's couch, and back again. His one, true possession.

The skull had once been part of a body, of flesh, and organs, and blood. It once had hair, eyes, and a face. Once it had arms, and a stunning smile. Once it had been his grandfather.

But, all good things came to an end.

When Sherlock was a boy his grandfather had been his best friend, he had taught him all about deduction and analysis- taught him to hone his skills, and how to observe. Sherlock had always been a bright boy, but once his grandfather got hold of that "genius spark" (that's what he'd called it, and it still made Sherlock swell with pride) he fanned it until the spark was a raging inferno. And, sometimes, Sherlock hated being so smart because other kids liked to pick on him, and be mean to him.

His grandfather had a solution for that as well. He taught Sherlock how to defend himself. First by teaching him the Marquess of Queensbury Rules, and then by showing him a more powerful, flowing form of self-defense that was effective no matter what. Bartitsu (Or, Baritsu as Sherlock had always mispronounced it.)

He no longer needed to defend himself, but it was noted he was a champion boxer when he was young. He even won a few medals, and his grandfather had supported him the whole way. His parents, of course, had as well. But they thrived more on his cerebral accomplishments. Flaunting flawless report cards, and his champion attendance record to all of their friends. He had, despite popular belief, a fine childhood. Until he was twelve.

When he was twelve his grandfather had gotten into an accident while he was out in the country side. He was walking on an old, deserted road, when a car driven by a man who had just stolen several thousand pounds from the Bank of England hit him head-on. The collision sent his grandfather flying, and his head smashed into a rock twelve feet away. The man escaped, because the policemen who'd been chasing him pulled over to assist his grandfather. By the time he got to the hospital his condition had been too serious, and he died at two-fifteen in the afternoon, one hour before Sherlock was released from school. The news waited for him at the door.

When his father told him, Sherlock had not believed him. He didn't believe him until the funeral. Even then, Sherlock was in a state of denial.

From then on he was a heavy burden on the family. This was the point he quit allowing people too near him. It was too painful when he left. And, one-by-one, the steady group of friends he'd made turned into acquaintances and admirers, but never friends. Mycroft, who had been close with him, became an object of scorn. Their father quit trying to speak to the boy, after all it had been his father, he understood the pain! Sherlock wouldn't hear of it though. It was too painful. It was too much to ask from him to deal with. So, he didn't. He shut out the world, locked the doors, and lost the key.

When he was seventeen he fell into such a bout of depression his parents locked him in his room. Hoping he wouldn't hurt himself. He climbed from the room, and went to the cemetery. He unearthed his grandfather's remains, and took his skull. He kept it carefully hidden for years. No one could know of what he'd done. He covered the grave, and drive his car around the cemetery, making sure it looked as if a punk kid had just spun their tires in the grass to be disrespectful. No one ever discovered he had his grandfather's skull.

The day his grandfather died, and the day he retrieved his skull, were four years apart. But, he felt immensely better once he had the skull back.

He cleaned it, polished it, and held it when he had to think. He knew it was morbid, macabre, and disturbing, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Even now. As a fully grown man, he wanted to throw a temper tantrum any time someone spoke ill of his skull. If anyone but John, and Mrs. Hudson ever touched it he'd probably try to rip their hands clean off their bodies. Mycroft only knew because Sherlock had cried for it during one of his heroin withdrawals. Even then, Mycroft was not pleased but had agreed not to tell mummy. Their father was no wonder, he was long dead. Sherlock had taken that quite well, actually.

Here he was, he sighed, twenty-two years after the fact. Still, in a way, being protected and lead by his grandfather.

/br.

John returned that night, but only briefly to grab his wallet (he quit taking it to work, because he'd gained several pounds thanks to the vending machine down the hall) he looked at Sherlock who was holding that old skull, and he sighed. He saw the knives were back in the kitchen sink, and three broken alarm clocks were on the table. One was still collected, so John was glad to see Sherlock had replaced his clock. He glanced again at the stoic man in the chair, and he decided Sarah could wait a while. John realized that he had been unnecessarily angry at Sherlock that morning, and Mrs. Hudson said he was in quite a mood all day. John took a seat across from him, "Sherlock?"

The man gave no indication he'd heard him.

"Sherlock, eventually, you'll have to quit sulking here with that skull and go down to the Yard and get a case.

Sherlock continued to be unresponsive.

"Alright. I'm going out then. I'll leave you alone with the skull." John said in an exasperated tone, he was walking and was almost out the door when Sherlock snapped at him.

"He has a name, you know!"

John stopped, and turned, "How am I supposed to know that, Sherlock? You never told me."

Sherlock frowned, "He was my grandfather."

John stared, "Your grandfather? That skull..."

Sherlock nodded, "Twenty-two years ago today he died."

John sat back down, "Really?"

John honestly felt a wave of relief because he had always thought it was some random person's skull that Sherlock had stolen from a museum, or the morgue, or something equally terrifying. To know that the skull wasn't a stranger but was someone who had cared for Sherlock was a real relief. Most likely his grandfather wouldn't mind sitting on his grandson's mantle like a paper-weight. However, the same could probably not be said for the decapitated head in the fridge. That man would probably be highly unamused if he was capable of coherent thought anymore.

Sherlock nodded, "I was twelve."

John nodded, taking this in, then exhaled, "Alright. Fine. You know what? That is just fine. If you're happy with that, then so am I."

"Are you going out with Sarah?"

John nodded, "Yeah. We're just going to dinner. Need me to pick anything up afterwards?"

"Milk."

"Alright. See you."

Sherlock didn't respond. When John was gone he placed his grandfather's skull back on the mantle. He ran a hand over his grandfather's paper-yellow cranium, for some reason, the sucking wound that had always festered after his grandfather's death was not throbbing. He actually felt better, able to handle the face he'd lost his grandfather to some random act of violence. He moved away a curtain to watch John cross the street. His friend. His best friend, somehow made it that much more bearable. The two were incredibly similar, John and his grandfather, right from their profession to their shared first name.

Sherlock closed the curtain, and sat back on the couch. He pulled out his phone, and texted Lestrade:

_Got a case for me?  
>SH<em>

Lestrade responded promptly:

_Fancy a double homocide?  
>L<em>

_ETA 15 minutes  
>SH<em>

Sherlock leapt up, pulled on his coat, and scarf, and he smiled at the skull, "I'm going out, grandpa, double homicide. You know." he walked closer, and picked it up, "Oh? You'd like to come? Alright. I can always say it's for scientific study."

The door to the flat slammed shut as he left.


End file.
